Sarah G

A tale from Thursday…

Taj has just ducked out the door for round four of chemo. The only reason I can think of as to why it’s taken so long to pick up a keyboard and write about it is that I haven’t had the convenience of having a laptop lying next to my bed until this morning. You see I’m in quarantine. That’s what tonsillitis and a blocked salivary gland will do to you. Taj is facing a few months of soft tissue pain, nausea, tiredness and run down blood cells, and a dose of this sore throat and pain while eating won’t help her cause one bit. I’d never forgive myself and I’m sure her family would have me… executed.

She is a brave soul. Those around her have taken on the Lance Armstrong philosophy which is to accept the agony of chemo in the ultimate pursuit of health. In fact, I think the better term is embrace, maybe encourage, or rejoice.

Of course, when on the throne oneself, I’m not sure that’s the easy road. Here I lie with a sore throat which will surely be gone in a few days and I am riddled with woe and misery. Am I lying here, meditating that hot red spot away? No. Am I meditating with a calm, healing light around myself? No. Am I swallowing every anti-biotic screaming ‘Take that ,filthy bacteria’? No. I’m surrounded by Christmas gifts to make me feel cherished and loved, calling my dad every day to remind him how sick his little baby is (and in turn how needy she still is), and dreaming of that ever distant day (next week) when I can live normally once again.

Taj, on the other hand, takes the chemo hits like a prize fighter. Showing no pain as the fists fly in low and hard under the solar plexus, she backs away, darts and weaves, even comes in with a few jabs and hooks in week three, before cowering back down for another round up against the ropes. There certainly is no escaping from the ring on chemo day. The waiting room and blood tests are much like the weigh in, eyeing off the other fighters who are on the card that day. A sympathetic nod here and there, a grin of recognition for someone you have seen previously, and a full blown smile and ‘how are you going?’ for those you have shared your story with.

Once your blood results are in, about an hour later, it’s time to see the coach, your medical oncologist, who starts out asking how you’re going. She repeats again with a look that reaches through your eyes and down into your soul ‘But how are you really going?’. Admitting it’s not the easiest thing she’s ever been through, Taj is able to shift the conversation onto more practical matters like whether this pain in the vein is a problem, is the numbness in my fingers normal, and whether she can get a copy of her blood results. The doctor offers friendly, wise and succinct answers to all of Taj’s questions and it’s back to the waiting room for more waiting.

The Breast Care Nurse is the tournament doctor. She knows every slug that has been dished out to every patient. Every lingering side effect and mental scar that has been left. She knows more than that though, she knows what’s to come. And that makes her the most sought after official in the place. She moves around the waiting room, dishing out big smiles and hugs to all of her charges, compliments to those who have lost or gained hair since she last saw them, and knowing empathy to those who are not enjoying their journey one bit.

Accompanied by ‘her entourage’ as Taj enters the ring must be a delight for the staff. Bright, cheery, grateful, graceful, and full of questions and wonder about the disease. If she has any fear, she doesn’t show it in the arena. For her first dose, after the long description of the physical impact and side effects of the evil looking red liquid, including the loss of her treasured blond hair, Taj declares ‘Give me a double!’ Her bravado only dropped for a milli-second when she asked with trepidation, half way through the first injection of Epirubicen, if there really was a different type of chemo where you don’t lose your hair.

Just like any good fighter, you start your pain medication before you start the bout, anticipating what’s to come. The medication nurse serves you up the largest medication packet for one solitary, smallish capsule you ever did see. And that’s your Emend… kick nausea to the kerb. That old anti-drinking slogan from the 80’s ‘How will you feel tomorrow?’ comes to mind because every morning is like waking up with the worst hangover you’ve ever had. Apparently the big tablets on days one, two and three knock it out, and the maxalon on the rest of the days give it a nudge, but only the final few days of the cycle do you feel like you haven’t drunk a flagon of rocket fuel the previous night.

There’s no escaping it. If cancer was a sport, it would be a blood sport. The fear it insights. The punishment it dishes out. The treatment which hurts more than the actual injury. The recovery. Then the long, arduous, impatient wait to see when you will be allowed back on the park. Perhaps that’s the secret. To attack the ball or the man like you would on the field. To know that attack is the best form of defence. And to know that if you hit it with more force than it hits you, it lands on its arse.

And so you attack. You ask for a double dose. You smile while the chemo nurse sits you down on the comfortable lounge, the one luxury you are afforded in this ’suite’. Between the tray of needles and potions, the intravenous trolley and her swivel chair, there is no gap that you could dart through. And even if there was, there’s the additional hurdle of being reclined. It’s lock down. If you’re lucky they find a vein first go and you’re off and running. Unlucky if it takes a few jabs and searching swirls of the needle in your skin. Unluckier still if once the fluid enters, you feel a burning sensation. That pain will stay with you for the next few weeks so speak up now or forever hold your grimace.

The hours pass easier with company and easier still with various games – cards or dominoes. Some carry ds nintendos, especially if they have arrived alone. We wonder what conversations are going on across the room and they wonder the same about us. The Queen Bee, on her second full round of chemo in 8 years, toasts us with her plastic cup of filtered water. ‘My friends don’t ask me how I am, they ask me where I am!’ she exclaimed delightedly when we first met in the waiting room before round 1, explaining that she follows every round of chemo with a bout of travel.

The end of the session is unceremonial. You’re certain there must be more paperwork to fill out or sign, or another consultation to attend, but once they unplug you, that’s it, out you go. Other than the stop at the hospital pharmacy for your additional nausea meds of course and you would pay a thousand dollars for them, though thankfully they are subsidised by the PBS.

I hope Taj hears the cheering from her entourage, both near and far. For someone with over 50 people in her nearest and dearest list for text updates, the quality still outweighs the quantity, which is a testament to the care and love she shares with her friends.

So here’s cheers Taj. Please go to sleep tonight with the ringing of applause in your ears because you’re a winner and a hero to everyone in your corner.

Egg on Especially me.